


The Raven Riders

by speakingofnarwhals



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Gen, Scorpio Races AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 20:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5219492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakingofnarwhals/pseuds/speakingofnarwhals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every November, the Scorpio Races claim the lives of tourists and islanders alike. Still, every October riders come to Thisby to find fame, or magic, or fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blue Sargent

**Author's Note:**

> This is speakingofnarwhals from tumblr here to bring you this mess of a Raven Cycle Scorpio Races AU/kind of crossover.   
> Big thanks to faerielament for letting me run with her fantastic idea! 
> 
> If you would like to read them at a faster pace, find me on tumblr, because there are a lot more chapters published there already. This is my attempt to clean up my act. Chapters posted here will be more consistent as far as continuity goes, and I am debating changing some minor or possibly major plot points from the one on tumblr. So yeah.

Blue checked and rechecked the wraps around Godiva’s legs. The mare huffed, her salty, fishy breath far too close to Blue’s neck for comfort. She pressed three fingers to the dark fur just beneath the mare’s knee, murmuring nonsense words under her breath. That dark, deadly muzzle retreated a hair. Blue pressed harder, and the mare snorted as if offended and jerked her head away. Blue couldn’t keep the fond smile from her face, even if the mare was likely offended that Blue hadn’t let her guard down enough that she could rip her spine from her neck. Blue couldn’t quite bring herself to fault the horse for it. It was in her nature, just as it was in Blue’s to avoid being eaten.   
Godiva shifted in a sudden, electric manner, which could only mean that she’d spotted someone coming down the aisle. Orla’s muttered curse confirmed this. Blue got to her feet; her cousin had Godiva’s saddle propped against her hip and her bridle over the opposite shoulder. “It’s not too late to give this up.” Orla drawled in a tone that said she knew full well what Blue’s response would be.   
“Right,” Blue snapped, “After I caught myself a capaill uisce-”   
“Maura caught you a capaill,” Orla interjected.   
Blue continued with some difficulty. She could interject that her mother had only helped her, and that she had done plenty of the work herself, but she chose to pretend she hadn’t heard Orla’s comment instead, “And trained her, I should just give up the race.”   
Orla snorted, “That’s the idea. Or, you know, whatever. Go commit suicide to prove a point.”   
Blue was fuming, “So I should just give up? With the race less than a month away? I should let people keep saying that Puck Connolly was an outlier, that no woman could ever win the race again?”   
With a dramatic flip of her hair, Orla threw the saddle over the door of the stall and rested the bridle on top of it, “What makes you think you’re going to win?” she sneered.   
Resentfully, Blue flipped the saddle pad over Godiva’s back and got her saddle. To get the saddle over the mare’s back, Blue had to stand on her tiptoes.  
Orla snorted, “You can’t even reach her back,”   
Blue cinched up the girth securely, glaring at the buckles instead of dignifying her cousin’s comment with a response. Like height even mattered when you were on top of a capaill. Skill was the only thing that counted when you were in the saddle. Not that Orla would know anything about that.   
“It’s going to be a mess down there,” a new voice interjected. Her mother had entered the stable, dark hair falling out of her braid and clinging to her sweaty forehead after working with one of the two-year-olds.  
She wasn’t wrong. It was still early, and so the beach was still dominated by mongers looking to sell and buyers trying to find the fastest demon of them all. Blue was aware of this, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. But she needed to get out, to do something, and she could get a look at the competition while she was getting Godiva used to clamor and crowd of the beach.   
Taking her bridle, she slipped it over Godiva’s long, curved ears. “We can handle it,” she told her mother.   
Maura smiled, “I’m sure you can,” her mother said, and Blue couldn’t tell whether it was a prediction or just a motherly thing to say.


	2. Adam Parrish

Adam was no stranger to the violence of men. His ribs reminded him of this with every step, aching from the force of his father’s fist from the night before. Pain was a steady reminder of why he should fear any sort of violence, but here he was, preparing to face something far worse than his father’s messy anger.   
The argument still replayed in the back his mind, red-tinged and indistinct, only notable because it had actually been an argument. Adam had tried to fight back, and he’d gotten a kick to the ribs after the punch, but then it had stopped. His father’s boot had pushed the maddest words from his mouth. 

_What if I rode in the races?_ Adam couldn’t believe he’d finally said the right thing. After all these years, that was the only thing he’d ever said that had gotten his father to stop.

A long time ago, Robert Parrish had raced. For several years he caught and trained his own capaill. Adam and his mother had stood on the cliffs, salty sea wind stinging their cheeks, as Adam’s father raced below. 

But Robert Parrish had fallen in the races, and his right leg had been trampled to smithereens so he could never ride again, or work at all, really. And just to add to his suffering, Adam had refused to ride in his place. Adam worked where he could, at the butcher's and the hotel, and doing odd-jobs for the neighbors if they were willing to pay. But it was never enough. 

He’d been saving tiny portions of his money, hiding little deposits so his father wouldn’t waste them on more beer. It was his freedom money. One day, he’d make enough to escape this goddamned island. 

Now, unbelievably, he was carrying his whole stash in his pockets, prepared to spend it on one of the worst elements of Thisby. The horses. The thing that made Thisby not just intolerably sleepy and bleak, not just a noxious island drowning in the scent of seaweed and bad fish, but hell itself. Adam could remember last November, cowering in the shadows of their ramshackle house while the monsters clicked hungrily outside their window. 

Adam hadn’t ridden in years, not since before the accident. Adam had liked regular horses well enough. He’d even been eager, when he was very young, to ride in the Scorpio Races one day himself. When his father had had his accident, though, Adam realized just how awful the races were. He wasn’t going to let his father sacrifice him in a race that took the lives of half of its contestants each year. He wasn’t a fool. 

So much for that. He stepped onto the beach, and he felt the violence. Not his father’s bitter savagery. The capaill weren’t creatures of small, petty anger. There was nothing blurry or slurred about their wide eyes, their curled back lips with hard, white teeth bared. Violence was not anger to them, it was just life.   
Adam supposed he could understand that. 

He minced cautiously through the crowd, trying to recall all he’d ever known about horses. His father used to take him to bet on the races. He’d talk about what made a good horse. It wasn’t just build or speed; not in these races. You could have all the speed in the world and lose a lot more than the race if your mount dragged you into the sea. 

Looking at the creatures fighting against their leads, he couldn’t imagine a single one that wouldn’t kill him in an instant. Despair clawed at his throat. This was hopeless. He couldn’t get on one of these monsters; he couldn’t fall into the trap of every fool who’d ever died in this godforsaken race; he couldn’t die in the sea that he was trying to escape, become just another sacrifice for Thisby’s bloodthirsty shores to feed on. 

He couldn’t stay on this island another day. If he won, he could leave. If he raced, his father would leave him alone. 

Clearing his mind of panic, he inspected the shoulder on a liver chestnut that he thought looked a little less mad than the others.   
He could do this. He _had_ to.


	3. Ronan Lynch

A car pulled up beside him, engine purring dangerously. Ronan didn’t need to look to know who was there, so he didn’t react when the passenger seat of his own car swung open and Kavinsky threw himself into the passenger’s seat. 

“Brought you something, sweetheart,” K said, and Ronan knew what the present was and didn’t look.

Kavinsky waved a November cake beneath Ronan’s nose, “It’s not crack this time, asshole. Take it.” 

Ronan, mildly surprised, took the sugary mess of a pastry from Kavinsky, feeling a mild twinge of irritation at the thought of the sticky honey getting on his seats. “What the fuck, man?” he asked.

Kavinsky shrugged, “I don’t like the idea of being stoned with all those fucking monsters running around,” he declared, “And these things are fucking amazing. What are you staring at?” 

While K had been talking, Ronan’s gaze had returned to the beach. From the safety of his car, the scene didn’t seem so horrific. The sounds of the horses screams were muted by the hiss of the air conditioner. Everything looked small and thus less deadly. The smears of red already coating the white sand were nothing but splotches of paint, like the red lines of the knife painted on the side of K’s car. 

“Shit, man,” Kavinsky said, and for once his voice sounded subdued, almost reverential, “You people are fucking crazy, you know that?”   
Joseph Kavinsky had come to Thisby with his mother only a couple years ago. Nobody knew where his father was, or why he’d decided to send his family to live on tiny Thisby when he was clearly rich. Well, people could understand why the man would want his druggie wife and son away from him, perhaps, but many asked with the attitude of a curse why he’d chosen to plague Thisby with them. 

Sometimes Ronan felt bad for Kavinsky. It was bad enough to be a local on Thisby, to be used to its horrible wonder, but it must be a thousand times more awe-inspiring and terrifying for an outsider. 

Ronan shrugged in response to his statement, “No shit.” 

“I heard your dad was killed by one of those monsters,” Kavinsky commented, and Ronan’s jaw clenched.

“Right,” K hedged, “We don’t talk about daddy. So why are you sitting here watching the ponies if you hate them so much?” 

Kavinsky was an outsider. He didn’t understand, probably couldn’t. Hell, it wasn’t like Ronan could explain it. He just remembered being ten years old, riding a capaill for the first and last time and feeling the beast surging beneath him. He’d beaten Declan that day, Declan who’d been riding for two years before Niall deemed Ronan clear-headed enough to get on a capaill. Nowadays, he couldn’t decide if believed that he really had beaten Declan, or if Declan had been holding back. 

“Isn’t your brother racing?” Kavinsky asked, and he was just on a fucking roll for bad questions today. 

“Fuck off,” Ronan snapped, the effect ruined by honey clogging his throat and making him cough. 

K was silent for a moment. He was wearing those stupid sunglasses, pitch-black lenses that meant he probably couldn’t even see because Thisby was gray and dim on the sunniest of days. Still, Ronan could see those dark eyes narrowing behind the lenses. Then he slammed out of the car, “Fuck you, too, princess,” he sneered, “Don’t get eaten.” 

He got back in his stupid white car and tore off.

Ronan glared down at the beach.


	4. Noah Czerny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noah Czerny is not stupid enough to ride in the races, but that doesn't mean he's not an integral part of them.

Noah Czerny wandered the sands of the beach, watching the horses as they reared and fought against their handlers. People watched him as he went, eager to see what he had to say about any of them. Already a few of his classmates had approached him for advice. Jerry Falk had asked about a bay mare. Noah had told him she was fast, but too much for Jerry to handle. He’d gotten a big fuck you for his troubles, but he noticed that Jerry was still bouncing from bowler to bowler, looking for a horse less likely to kill him. 

Good. It was rare for his peers to actually listen to his advice. Strangely enough, it was his elders who seemed to have no trouble taking advice from a boy in high school. 

“Czerny!” one of the bowlers shouted, “I’ve got a fast one here, yeah? Why don’t you take a look?” 

Noah drifted over, inspecting the bowler’s wares from a few feet away. This one was a stallion, the thick crest of his neck arched as he eyed a mare that another bowler wasn’t paying enough attention to. Fortunately for the man, he thought the mare was more likely to rip out the stallion’s throat than the man’s, but he couldn’t condone the man’s unsafe practices. 

“He looks alright,” he told the bowler who’d called him over, fishing for compliments, “A bit on the heavy side.” 

This was not what the man had been hoping for, and his face fell a fraction as he noted a few people’s gazes turning away, disinterested. Overall, though, stallions were less sea-mad than mares, so the bowler would probably have no difficulty selling the brute. Noah moved on. 

There were a few riders stretching their capaill’s legs on the beach. He saw Blue Sargent on her black mare, and smiled fondly. Usually the outcomes of the races didn’t much matter to Noah, but this year he hoped she won. Nobody could match her determination, that he was certain of.  
His eyes browsed the other riders, but he couldn’t find anyone else of particular interest among those already riding. 

He wandered about some more. There was a palomino stallion among the horses for sale this year. Noah stopped to admire him with a few others. They were all gazing at the handsome beast speculatively. There was plenty of superstition surrounding the races; there hardly couldn’t be. One such suspicion was that pretty color meant a bad racer. Very few horses that raced weren’t bay, black, or chestnut, but there had been the infamous Skata and another skewbald a couple years back. Both riders had met unfortunate fates, and both colorful beasts were back in the sea where they belonged. 

Clearly, the bowler had seen that he’d made a mistake in catching this particular beast. Despite the stallion’s color, his price was quite low. Of course, that just meant that the narrowed eyes of buyers were running off the horse like water. Who charged that little for a horse unless it was unrideable?  
As people shuffled away, Noah lingered out of sight. He didn’t want the bowler to try and talk him into praising the horse, though in all honesty, it didn’t seem too bad. It stood rather quietly, at least as quietly as he’d ever seen a capaill stand. He almost wondered if it was drugged. The idea seemed so much like sacrilege that Noah could hardly imagine anyone would do it. 

As he watched, a thin young man walked up to the bowler with the palomino. Noah knew him from somewhere, he was certain. It took a while to place the shape of his slumping shoulders. When Noah finally recognized him, he couldn’t believe he was on the beach. Adam Parrish had always expressed nothing but contempt for the races. There was no reason for him to be here, talking to a bowler about how he’d heard there was a very cheap capaill for sale in this direction. 

Noah watched in disbelief as the bowler grumbled over the price with Adam. The boy drove a hard bargain, he wouldn’t budge from his price. The bowler grudgingly offered him a ride on the horse, before he kept insisting on such a sparse price for such a beautiful creature.  
Adam nodded, looking unimpressed as the stallion was saddled up. 

Feeling conflicted, Noah wondered if he should say something. Adam was a peer that he felt certain would have no qualms ignoring his advice. Not to mention, Noah didn’t actually know what was going on. Could Adam ride? How should he know? 

The way he got on suggested a mixed answer. The bowler led the stallion to a rock, and Adam swung his leg over with ease. But unlike an experienced capaill rider, he didn’t hold the reins taught to ensure the horse’s head didn’t whip around to bite him. He was lucky the bowler was holding the reins, and he supposed that might’ve been why Adam hadn’t bothered. But for most riders, that was instinct. 

Noah watched as Adam nudged the stallion away from the rock and towards the beach. The horse was magnificent, his strides long and hungry even at the walk, and Adam seemed to be holding on well enough. They trotted, Adam bounced around in the saddle more than any rider really should, and Noah held his breath. Just stop, please... He’d really rather not see one of his classmates dashed out on the beach this early in the season. He wandered out from his hiding place, standing in full view against the cliffs, close so that he could hopefully do something when disaster struck.  
Adam let the stallion canter.


	5. Gansey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Richard Campbell Gansey III.

“Watch out, Dick,” Helen scolded, tugging Gansey to the side as a massive brown capaill uisce swung its rear in his direction. They were several feet away from it, well out of kicking distance, Gansey thought. He didn’t tell his sister this, letting her lead him to a more horse-free area of the beach. “What are we even doing down here?” Helen persisted, “We aren’t even supposed to be around this early in the season. The race is still weeks away.” 

Gansey had a suspicion that Helen suspected him of wanting to ride in the races. At the moment, he wasn’t sure what he wanted. At home, looking up information about the capaill uisce and their riders online, Gansey had longed to be a part of the action. Now, wandering the beach, he couldn’t help but feel a bit out of place. His polo shirt and Top Siders were too fine, too impractical, and he could feel the eyes of the locals on the beach assuring him that he was not welcome. 

Gansey focused his attention on the brown horse that may or may not have been about to kick him. “Do you know anything about horses, Helen?” he asked. She’d taken riding lessons when she was younger. 

“Not really,” Helen responded, clearly not wanting to know anything more. Perhaps she hadn’t taken lessons. He was almost certain she had.  
He flipped through his journal, looking for the notes he’d taken on the capaill uisce before coming. There weren’t many scientific studies on the creatures, for some reason. Gansey would’ve thought that such beasts would’ve been the topic of plenty of research. It was known that they could reproduce with regular horses, and that those offspring were viable... but the idea of a predatory creature and a grazing animal to be capable of reproduction was rather bizarre, if not entirely impossible. Maybe while he was here he could do his own study. 

“Really,” Helen said, and he could tell she was getting flustered. “Can we go back to the hotel now?” 

They had wandered deep into the horde of horses, men, and a few women, and the smell of blood and seawater was thick in Gansey’s nose. There was a bloody smear by his foot, and he wondered at the fate of that blood’s owner. “I just want to watch the riders,” Gansey relented, gesturing to a clear area of the beach where a few horses were galloping, “Then we can go back. Or you could just go back yourself, if you’d like. I’ll meet up with you.”  
Helen gave him a look that informed him of the stupidity of that suggestion. She followed him doggedly through the crowd until they reached the clear space on the beach. Helen eyed the horses warily as Gansey inched closer and closer, wanting to get a good look at the creatures. Most of the horses were brown or black, with a few reddish ones and one that was a pale gold color. There was a boy about his age riding that one, his brow furrowed and lips tight. He didn’t look like he was enjoying himself, and neither did the horse. 

Gansey watched, intrigued, and before he knew it they were suddenly not a few yards away but very, very close. The boy was pulling furiously on the reins, and the horse’s teeth were bared, its head straight in the air as it struggled to keep running. Gansey realized, with sudden mute clarity, that he was standing between the water horse and the sea, and he should probably get the hell out of the way. 

Then the massive beast’s shoulder rammed into him, and he curled in a ball, feeling one of the capaill’s hooves strike his calf and his whole leg exploded with pain. Somewhere, he could hear Helen screaming, and someone else yelling at him to get up. Cautiously, he got to his feet, then quickly, when he saw only a foot away a boy struggling to get a hold of the capaill’s bridle and urge it out of the sea while trying not to step on Gansey as he forced it back.  
Helen grabbed him and yanked him forcefully away. He could feel her heart pounding as she held him against her for a moment. 

“Noah!” a girl shouted, trotting towards them on a black horse. Gansey felt a brief flash of dread, but this horse seemed far more under control than the golden one. 

She dismounted and left her horse in the hands of a pale-faced man wearing a bowler hat.

“You alright?” the girl asked, coming to squint at Gansey. 

Gansey looked down at his leg, which was, amazingly, not covered in blood or anything, “I think so,” he said.

Expression tightening, she nodded curtly, “You’re just a tourist, aren’t you? You shouldn’t be on the beach.” 

Gansey opened his mouth to respond, stung by her sudden change in tone, but she’d already moved on to shout at the boys struggling with the gold horse.  
Slowly but surely, the three of them managed to wrangle the golden creature onto the shore. The boy on his back was scowling furiously, yelling something at the girl that he couldn’t make out because the other boy scowled and started shouting something over him.  
The monger who’d been left with the girl’s black horse stormed up, also yelling. 

Helen was saying something, probably having to do with going back to the hotel, but Gansey wanted to listen. 

The rider dismounted from the golden horse. His eyes were wide, he was breathing heavily, and he was now in a very involved shouting match with the girl. The other boy was holding the golden horse’s reins with one hand and making circles on its shoulder with the other. The man who’d been stuck with the black horse stormed up and swapped horses with the boy. 

“Wait,” the boy who’d been riding the golden horse suddenly separated himself from the fight with the girl, “I’m buying him.” 

“What?” the girl snapped, sounding more angry than concerned, “Are you stupid?” 

“Blue,” the boy now holding the black horse chided. 

The one buying the horse that had almost dragged him into the sea kept his back turned to her. Carefully, the man and the boy and the gold horse inched away from the girl and off to do business. Still huffing, the girl took her horse from the other boy, but she smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Why aren’t you riding this year, Noah?” she asked, but it was more teasing than a real question. 

Noah shrugged, “I like being alive,” he said. 

They shared a brief, happy moment, as close friends would, and Gansey felt a fierce pang of longing. 

“So, are you racing?” he managed to venture, and the girl turned to scowl at him.

“You. What are you still doing here?” 

Given a few minutes of separation from his near-death experience, Gansey found himself able to deal with her scowl a little better, “There’s no rule against it,” he said sharply.

She curled her lip at him, “You’re American, aren’t you? Things work differently here on Thisby. Rules aren’t necessary. You either have enough common sense to take care of yourself, or you die.” 

“Damn, Blue,” Noah murmured, looking delighted. 

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped, leading her horse away and jumping up with surprising ease for someone so short. She looked very tiny and majestic in the saddle, her short, dark hair fluttering in the wind. Gansey tried to drag his gaze away, but he found himself watching as she trotted away from them.  
“Wow, Dick, real subtle,” Helen muttered, “Can we go now?” 

“What?” Gansey demanded, before realizing that he was still gazing after the dark mare and her rider. The boy Noah was giving him a rather knowing look.  
“You really should get off the beach,” he said gently, “Things will be winding down for the day soon, and you don’t want to be down here alone.”  
That was all Helen needed to hear. “Okay, let’s go,” she snapped. 

Gansey waved his sister off, “Would you like to join us for dinner?” he asked Noah. 

For a moment, Noah regarded them both silently, dark eyes in a soft, indistinct face made dusky with the setting sun. At that moment he looked like nothing but a fragment of Thisby itself, deciding whether or not Gansey was worthy of the magic and mystery of this island.  
Then Noah smiled, a shy, crooked thing, “Sure.”


	6. Blue Sargent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The students of Thisby's one high school fail to pay attention to their lessons. Nobody is surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still here!  
> I can't promise regular chapter releases because of who I am as a person, but I do plan to finish this story eventually.

Why Blue was sitting in class during this beautiful day was a mystery to her. She could be riding. She could be oiling down Godiva’s tack. Instead she was having the quadratic formula hammered into her skull. What anyone on Thisby would ever use algebra for was beyond her.

Many of her classmates felt the same. Noah was busy doodling miniature capaill and what she believed were dragons in his notes. One of the Palson twins was braiding her sister’s hair. Jerry Falk was flirting with Crystal McPherson. Miraculously, the douchebag pair of Kavinsky and Lynch were present, cackling maliciously in the back of the room. Even Mrs. Wallstone seemed less than enthusiastic about her lesson. Blue had noticed that, in the midst of completing her calculations, the teacher had deemed the solution of three minus one to be four. Nobody thought this was worth commenting on, except for Adam Parrish, who raised his hand politely.

Blue glared at the back of his head. What an asshole. She saved his life, and what did she get for it? I don’t need your help. And then he goes and buys the damned horse that almost killed him. After all those years of turning up his nose at Blue and her family’s work. Scoffing about the races and thinking it stupid that they would be out of school from next week until November third…

She jumped at a prickle on her arm. Noah had run out of room in his notebook, and was now doodling on her skin. She stuck her tongue out at him but didn’t stop him as he traced the intricate lines of Godiva’s face onto her flesh. Only two more hours, and school was over with. Then she could go out on the beach, or take care of her tack. Maybe she’d just take a walk down to Gratton’s and see who’d already put their names on the board.

“I had dinner with that guy Adam ran over last night,” Noah offered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Adam turn at the mention of his name. Their eyes met, and they scowled at one another instantaneously.

“He seems nice,” Noah continued obliviously.

Blue rolled her eyes at him, “Are you trying to say I was too mean to him yesterday?”

“No,” Noah assured her, “He asked me to help him pick a horse for the races,”

Blue couldn’t say she was surprised. Many tourists came to Thisby with half a mind to ride, especially if they came this early in the season. Most of them realized very quickly that watching was all the involvement they needed. Stupid rich American boys tended to be harder to convince.

“And will you?” she asked, because it was hard to say with Noah.

Noah shrugged in his boneless way, “I told him I’d like to see him ride a regular horse first, so I can see how he does. I was wondering if we could borrow Sneaks this afternoon.” 

Blue shook her head at him, “Knock yourself out. I don’t think mom’s doing any lessons today.”

Sometimes she couldn’t begin to understand Noah. He was always so practical, never entering the races despite his skill with the capaill. But now he’d decided to train up a tourist just because he thought the guy was nice. 

Personally, Blue didn’t think putting an inexperienced person on a capaill was any way to treat a nice person, but she wasn’t going to try and stop him. Considering this American had probably never been on a horse in his life, Blue could only hope Sneaks put in a terrible performance and helped him realize that riding even a normal horse took a hell of a lot more skill than he thought


	7. Adam Parrish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adam adjusts to the reality of owning a capaill.

Before he’d gone to buy himself a capaill uisce, Adam had fixed the barn. At the time, he had been satisfied with his reparations. Now, with a gold horse shuffling irritably inside of it, he wasn’t so sure. He’d done his research, though. There were spirals carved into the thick wood, layered and reinforced over and over again. Still, he couldn’t help wishing he’d been able to find someplace better to board the monster. He didn’t want it this close to the house.  
Boarding rates for a capaill were obscene, though. He’d spent nearly all of his reserve money on the horse itself. Fortunately, his work for the butcher had given him access to some less desirable cuts of meat for cheap. These were offered to the horse, who tore at them ravenously. Even after working at Gratton’s for a couple of years now, it was hard to watch. 

Letting out a shuddering sigh, Adam sank to the floor outside the horse’s stall. He’d need to get ready for work in a few minutes. The hotel manager wouldn’t appreciate it if he showed up smelling like blood, but his father was home and he didn’t want to go inside. 

Since he’d brought the capaill uisce home, his father had been oddly silent. Adam couldn’t trust it. His father was still angry at him. All these years, and now he finally ran in the races? It was just a quiet before the storm. 

The barn door hadn’t been part of Adam’s repairs, so it still hung sideways on its hinges. He was torn about fixing it. It was very hard to open, but he wasn’t sure if it would actually be a boundary for the capaill. As his mother struggled to push it open, he realized it would probably need to be fixed. If he needed to get out in a hurry it would be a major obstacle. 

“You should come inside,” his mother said softly, eyeing the horse warily. She was clutching Adam’s work uniform in her hands.

He stood up slowly, feeling just as wary as she did, “I’ve still got some time.” 

She nodded, knotting Adam’s uniform in her fists. It was going to be wrinkled now, but he didn’t think she was thinking of that, even though she was staring down at her hands. She wanted to say something. Her eyes flickered up, took in Adam standing by a the stall with blood on his hands and spilling down the side of the brand new stall door. She looked scared, she always did, but Adam thought maybe she was more so than usual. 

He wanted her to tell him to stop. That there was a better way to escape, that they would figure something else out. Only a few moments before this desire had not even existed, but now it clogged his throat in a painful wad. He waited in mute desperation for her to speak. _Please do you even care do you care what he’s made me do?_

“We-” she started, swallowing hard before mustering a weak smile, “We’re very proud of you, Adam,” she finished, and took a step forward. A peace offering.   
Adam took his clothes from her, “I should get dressed.” He wasn’t sure how he managed to say it. The pain in his throat felt like choking. He shoved out of the crooked stable door that he’d have to fix after work and slipped quietly into the house. Past his father snoring in the armchair and into the corner he called a bedroom. There wasn’t any time for a shower, so he washed his hands as best he could and prayed that he didn’t smell any worse than the rest of Thisby.


	8. Noah Czerny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gansey learns to ride a horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been neglecting this a lot because of school. That will probably continue. Sorry.

After school, Noah stopped by the hotel to pick up Gansey and his sister, Helen. The three of them walked through and out of Skarmouth, traversing dirt roads until they reached the little path with its two hand-painted signs:   
“Fox Way Stables: Lessons, Capaill, and Drafts” and beneath it “Psychic Readings”. 

“Psychics?” Helen asked skeptically.

Gansey laughed, “They must make some bank off of betting, then.” 

Noah shook his head, “They don’t do readings about the races. It’s bad luck.” 

“Oh?” Gansey asked, and this was why Noah liked him. Helen looked like this conversation was too ridiculous to be had, but Gansey was intrigued. Perhaps Blue’s family were psychics, perhaps they weren’t, but he was going to treat the subject seriously just the same. 

“There was a guy a few years back who asked who would win the race that year. They told him, but before he could even leave the stables one of their capaill got loose, mauled him.” Afterwards, noting Helen’s pale complexion, Noah supposed he shouldn’t have mentioned the last part. But he needed to be sure Gansey understood this. Don’t ask the psychics about the races. They would probably answer you, but you wouldn’t be better off for knowing.

The lane was short, ending before a humble building that looked as if it had been cobbled together from two. Behind it were the two stables; a long, low wooden one for the lesson and work horses. A good distance from it and the house was a stone building that stank of fish and the sea, smaller than the house or the regular horse stables. Godiva was housed there, along with the other two capaill the Sargents had caught this year. 

Behind both stables there was an arena where the Sargents trained and gave riding lessons. Most folks on Thisby thought this to be a strange business to be in, considering just about everyone on Thisby grew up knowing how to ride. But the psychics had been unsurprisingly forethinking in their enterprise. Tourists ate up the chance to feel as if they knew more about horses than they had when they’d arrived on Thisby. 

This time of the year, the Sargent’s small herd of lesson horses hadn’t quite started their endless barrage of tourist lessons. They would be difficult, but that was okay. Noah needed to see not just how Gansey sat on the horse, but how he handled a horse that had a very strong and negative opinion about the fact that he was sitting on it. 

When they reached the barn there was already a thick black Percheron in one of the crossties. Noah walked up and stroked its soft muzzle as Maura Sargent pulled off its saddle, “Hello, Noah,” she said, “Blue told me you were coming. The lesson horses are out in the pasture. Can you run them in after you get Sneaks? It’s going to storm.” 

Noah glanced up at the clear skies overhead and nodded, “Sure.” 

“Thanks,” 

Noah grabbed a spare halter and lead rope and led Gansey and Helen out to the far paddock where the horses were roaming. As he walked, he demonstrated how halters worked to Gansey, and then pointed out which horse he was meant to get. Then he worked on opening the gates that lead to the smaller paddock closer to the house, with the long shelter for the horses to hide in and the thicker fencing in case any capaill washed up from the ocean got too close. 

He heard a shout, and looked up to see Sneaks trotting off, halter and lead rope hanging awkwardly from his face. Thus far, nothing looked too terribly dangerous. He was relatively impressed that Gansey had gotten the right horse. He finished setting up the gates and whistled for the horses. Sneaks was the first to arrive, looking disgruntled, and Noah caught him and fixed the halter. The other horses came through more reluctantly. They hadn’t yet detected the storm Maura had foreseen, but they’d be grateful to be in their smaller pasture when they did. 

Gansey arrived at the gate after the horses, a little out of breath.

“Here’s your horse,” Noah said, handing over the lead rope. 

Looking embarrassed but not annoyed, Gansey took the lead rope. Noah corrected his grip so he wouldn’t lose a finger, and then they walked back to the barn. 

Blue was there when they got back, tacking up one of the four-year-olds, who was looking pretty sprightly. Sneaks pinned his ears at it, and Helen side-stepped quickly. 

“He probably won’t kick you,” Noah assured, hurrying into the tack room to get them ready. By the time they’d gotten back from the paddock the sky had started darkening. They might not have much time to ride at all today. 

When they finally got tacked and headed out to the arena, they discovered that they’d acquired an audience. Blue was trotting her horse, trying to get it to behave, and Orla, Calla, Persephone, Maura, and a few others were leaning on the fence. Noah invited Helen to go stand with them, and she did so, and then he directed Gansey on how to get on the horse. 

As Noah covered the basics - put your heels down, sit up straight, look forward - the clouds overhead turned snarling and ugly, and the horses got progressively more irritable. Blue’s more so than Sneaks, but the very existence of another horse was enough to piss Sneaks off just enough to make him ornery. Gansey was handling it all very well, though, despite numerous unhelpful comments from the watching psychics and Blue’s ease with the horses making him look worse than he was. Patience was good; you couldn’t get angry with a horse, not even a capaill. A clear head at all times was essential.   
When the first heavy droplets of rain started to fall, the psychics started heading inside and Blue dismounted. Noah took this as a cue that the storm was going to get bad quickly; otherwise he would’ve tried to keep going. 

As they were untacking, the rain really started to come down, and Blue told him to leave the horse in a stall, it wasn’t worth running through the rain to put him out. Though she didn’t look happy about it, she invited him and the Ganseys to stay until the storm had passed. 

The inside of the Fox Way house was a mess of activity. Young children wailed as thunder grumbled outside, and their cries met with varying degrees of sympathy. Jimi cooed at them, Calla cursed. Maura was attempting to cook something for dinner while Persephone prepared a pie and got in the way. Orla was trying to have a conversation over the phone, but Thisby’s telephone lines were finicky things, and she had to shout to be heard by the person on the other end. 

Blue abandoned them to critique her mother’s cooking, and Noah led the Ganseys to the reading/living room so they’d be out of the way.   
“It’s going to be a nasty one,” a soft voice murmured. Persephone drifted in from the kitchen, the warm smell of baking indicating she’d finally gotten her pie in the oven, “You all should probably stay until it’s over.”


	9. Ronan Lynch

The clouds overhead grumbled and surged, black angry things that swallowed up the sky and darkened Ronan’s mood further. Not that he was particularly angry about the weather. There was just something about the dark fury of a storm that strengthened the tumultuous parts of himself. Most people ran for cover when Thisby’s storms raged. Ronan jerked his slate gray car around another bend in a country road and grinned at the straightaway that came into view. 

As he floored the accelerator, his phone buzzed from where it sat on the console. Declan, probably. The very thought of his brother cast even darker shadows over his mind. Above, thunder snarled. His phone buzzed again, again, again. He picked it up and chucked it onto the floor of the passenger’s side, and then cursed. He should’ve thrown it in the backseat, or out the fucking window. 

The straightaway ended at an intersection of two dirt roads, and he slowed to just long enough to make the turn to the left. He wasn’t sure where he was right now, but that was mostly because he wasn’t thinking about it. Thisby was too small to get lost on. If he actually decided to go “home” he could find his way. But if Thisby managed to actually frighten him with her wrath, he’d probably stop at Kavinsky’s place instead. 

For now, though, he was going to continue tearing around the backroads of Thisby until the angry storm blew him off the road. 

His phone vibrated insistently on the floor as rain started pouring down, three or four more messages added to the growing catastrophe that was Ronan Lynch’s inbox. Then the phone went blessedly silent, either from the storm’s interference with Thisby’s already shitty signal or the failure of Declan’s patience. 

At this point, rain was falling in thick, heavy drops that the windshield wipers could hardly keep up with. Ronan turned on his brights and pushed on. If he were to actually guess at his location, he’d say he was probably on one of the main roads that ran out of Skarmouth. It was wider, with most of the ruts filled in with fresh dirt that was becoming thick and sticky in the rain. He might be able to make it to K’s before he got stuck in a puddle of quicksand, although part of him still wanted to keep going. 

Since the latter was by far the more illogical and risky choice, he went with it. 

There was freedom in the storm, in letting his tires roll and spin in the clinging mud as water clamored relentlessly onto the roof, drowning out all but the indomitable baseline of the music rumbling from his speakers. Ronan had always believed in a God, sitting in the dusty pews of Skarmouth’s church, listening to the tales of their loving Father. But that image had never settled right with him. The towering spires of that ancient church spoke of a different God, something far more wild and uncontrolled than the priest would have them think. He greatly favored his idea of God, powerful and furious, and he felt closest to that here, at the heart of the storm. 

As he tore down the road away from Skarmouth, he found himself grinning savagely. The grin only lasted a moment, straining the corners of his mouth with its unfamiliarity. Then he saw a figure in the road up ahead, and he slammed on the breaks. Through the rain he couldn’t tell what it was; machine or living thing, man or beast. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he clenched the gearshift, ready to throw it in reverse if he saw even the faintest impression of horse in the rain-soaked something before him.

Instead, the mass congealed into two separate entities; a rusty, once-red bike and a sodden, still-elegant boy. Adam Parrish watched him with wary eyes as Ronan let the car sidle forward, rolling down the window and letting thick droplets of rain fall onto the passenger’s seat. 

“The fuck are you doing out here, Parrish?” he asked. 

Raising his voice to be heard over Ronan’s music, the grumbling car, and the pouring rain, Adam said, “Going home,” with a lack of conviction Ronan could identify with. 

“Need a ride?” he asked, before remembering to add the usual barbs to his words.

Adam blinked in momentary bafflement, dusty lashes brushing against his sharp cheekbones, and Ronan put the car in neutral and swung out of his seat. “Here, put your shitty bike in the trunk,” 

He had one hand on a handlebar before he realized that Adam did not look grateful or even interested in his offer, “I’m fine,” he said, and now that they were closer Ronan could see that his teeth were chattering. 

“Jesus,” he snapped, “Did you come all this way from Skarmouth? Are you fucking crazy?”

“Didn’t look like it was going to be this bad,” Adam snapped defensively, and Ronan managed to maneuver the bike to the trunk while Adam held it protectively. As if Ronan would run off with the piece of shit, or something. 

“Really, I’m fine,” Adam attempted one last time as Ronan thrust the bike into the trunk. 

Not interested in arguing the point of how clearly not fine he was, and also realizing that he was perhaps being a little too charitable, Ronan got back in the car and slammed the door. A moment later, Adam approached the passenger’s side like a wary animal and cautiously got in. 

Ronan watched him climb in, his pale dusted features standing out against the artificial blackness of the leather seats. He’d heard rumors about Adam Parrish at school. That he’d gotten himself a capaill uisce and was actually going to ride in the races. 

For some reason, this bothered him. It shouldn’t; idiots from school ran in the races all the time. They either quit or they died or they survived, it happened every year and Ronan had never once been affected. None of the idiots he ran with were stupid enough to feed themselves to the capaill. Most of them were imports from elsewhere, a blessed breath of rebellious, gasoline-tinted air in a world of nothing but salt, sea, and past. Adam Parrish was bred out of that old Thisby, his elegant features just as much a part of the landscape as the coarse seagrass. It shouldn’t be a surprise that the lure of the races had gotten to him in the end. 

The inevitability of it made Ronan angrier. Pressing down hard on the gas, he shot forward into the pouring rain, eliciting a horrified gasp from his passenger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like these two are probably somewhat out of character during the next few chapters. Too lazy to re-write it.


End file.
